


Sparks Are Always Brighter in the Shadows

by OverMyFreckledBody



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: (AND DRINKING IT I MEAN), (and adrenaline one too??), (every time i think of the stuff i think of my precious Will bc he iS MY CHILD AND I LOVE HIM), (lowkey malec relationship build ups but like w/e), (maybe more later), Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Shadowhunter Chronicles Fusion, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Angst, Background Relationships, Cats, Fluff, Holy Water, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Shadowhunter Jean, Supernatural Elements, Warlock Marco, bc there is now, i mean each scene has its own but overall youre gonna have loads of missing info and scenes tbh, is there such a thing as a color kink?, it has no plot?, jean likes a lot of things okay, little bit of a temperature kink, little bit of blood and gore and violence and stuff?, lots of build up and just snippets of jean and marco relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-30 13:13:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6425404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OverMyFreckledBody/pseuds/OverMyFreckledBody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Each chapter is a different color that Jean focuses on when he's with his warlock boyfriend.</p><p>There's more he can focus on than he originally thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Red

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheFullmidgetAlchemist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFullmidgetAlchemist/gifts).



> HEY WOW THIS SHOULD HAVE HAPPENED A LONG TIME AGO  
> The AU anyway. I only decided to do this challenge recently. It's supposed to be an art challenge, but I wanted to see if I could do it as a writer. I'm doing good so far, I believe.  
> And besides, maybe this is build up for the actual au.
> 
> So, each chapter will have scenes that refer to the color and are based around it in some way. Each scene will be a minimum of 300 words and have no limit, so some will be obviously longer than others. That also means chapters can possibly be drastically different in size.
> 
> Thank you, C, for always being there to ramble to, and being the one that inspired me with this AU to begin with.
> 
> Expect the next chapter tomorrow.
> 
> Music to listen to: any of [these playlists](http://8tracks.com/explore/clace) tbh.

**_Red_ **

 

* * *

 

 

Red has always been a color that Marco has liked a lot, something that Jean could never blame him for. After all, it was a color that suited him well; a color that brought out parts of him that tended to be hidden in the shadows of the rest of him, a color that contrasted parts of him, showing off others, and a color that highlighted every part of him, even if in different ways.

 

The first time Jean had seen him, Marco was wearing lipstick. It was more of a surprise than anything else, but that shock had turned to wonderment at how a shade could bring attention to someone’s mouth so much. At least, that’s what he thought the lipstick had done at first. It wasn’t until later (when Jean saw him again, but with a different color to decorate himself) that he learned that all it did was accent the shape of his lips, and that he had a very attention-demanding mouth.

 

Eren was the one who had to do most of the talking, then. He kept shooting Jean odd looks about his sudden quiet, knowing something was off, but unable to quite put his finger on it like the way Mikasa (with her silent “I’m avoiding it because I know you can take care of it yourself” attitude) or Armin (who glanced at him occasionally, not saying much himself – Jean couldn’t even remember why he was even there, it wasn’t like he could get any information for his queen from their trip, anyway – but the _knowing_ look in his bright, sparkling eyes told Jean that it wasn’t a secret).

 

At least Marco didn’t react much to it. The downside to that was that he didn’t pay Jean a lot of attention, either. He kept to talking to Eren and remained as polite and professional as possible, only halting their talk once when a bell had chimed and he had disappeared into another room, claiming he had to feed his cat or something similar. Well, that was what Eren had said earlier, when he mentioned the cat that no one had seen, as Jean wasn’t really thinking about who had said what when he had the way Marco _walked_ on his mind.

 

He didn’t get out a lot; it wasn’t his fault that he liked to look at people – er, that he liked to look at… warlocks?

 

It hadn’t ruined the mission – not that there was much to ruin, as he didn’t have a lot of information on the case at hand, apparently – so it couldn’t have been too much of a big deal. Sure, Mikasa told him later that they would be going back and he would need to focus on the conversation then, but at that point, he would be used to seeing Marco and all his modest beauty, so it couldn’t be much of a problem.

 

* * *

 

Red was the color Marco’s cheeks turned when he was embarrassed – not pink, not light, but bright and vibrant and _red_. Jean presumed that it was because when he was truly embarrassed, he was usually down the deep _mortified_ that it shone brightly on his face, because for the most part he didn’t blush often. His smile and his eyes lit up, sure, they didn’t that often, but it wasn’t his cheeks that did so until he was so humiliated that they just exploded in color, always so suddenly, and each time it left Jean close to wondering if he was about to have a stroke.

 

There was a time that he had seen it happen three times over one issue, twice in the same time period, actually. If the situation hadn’t left Jean, himself, fumbling and sheepish, he would have likely been amused by it, but at the same time, if he was that person, to find it cute and silly, it wouldn’t have likely happened in the first place.

 

Marco had asked if Jean had wanted to stay over. It had been getting late and Jean was about to head off anyway, or getting close to mentioning it, when Marco had popped the question. Thinking back on it (several times, even simply on the way home, too), Jean realized it was probably how he worded his question that freaked Marco out most of all.

 

“No,” a blunt answer was his first response, before he continued (and made it worse, truthfully) with, “No, I don’t- I… Not yet.”

 

Marco probably noticed the way he had barely avoided saying _I don’t want to_. And while that was true, it rang closer with his words “not yet” than “ever at all”, but how could Marco have known that?

 

His cheeks had gone up in that color and he had looked away quickly, leaving Jean with the sudden urge to leave then, as to avoid anything else awkward from happening. Still, he stayed, sitting on his godawful couch and tried not to look at the captivating color that invaded Marco’s face.

 

A minute, maybe less, later, Marco had dangled his arm over the edge of the couch and caught Jean’s attention, where, face more passive and less colorful, he clarified, “Just to sleep. We could…” he had trailed off, but Jean knew he knew the words and what he was trying to say, he knew that Marco was wording it slowly just for him, so he could think it out, “Cuddle?”

 

And Jean, stupid, stupid, Jean had said, “I knew what you meant,” and denied Marco’s offerings once again, quickly looking away as color erupted over Marco’s nose.

 

When he had gotten home, he had made sure to send a fire message telling him that he was still looking forward to their date next Wednesday, if Marco was. He had gotten a short, lifeless message back, compared to his usual ones, and Jean had left him be, assuming it was a busted ego and that he would rather not talk to the one who had cracked it.

 

The next morning, the Institute bell had rung, and he, being the only one up who wasn’t focusing intently on something else, had answered it, to see his warlock there waiting for him, face red as he stammered out that he was sorry. He was sorry if Jean had felt that Marco had wanted to rush things, sorry that he had believed that just because Jean was a Shadowhunter that he would want to move more quickly than perhaps a human would in a relationship, since Shadowhunter lives were usually cut short and they desired to live it to the fullest. He was sorry and told Jean that he knew Jean was different than a lot of Shadowhunters, but he was still new to a lot of it and he just didn’t want Jean to be uncomfortable with or around him.

 

And with a hand up to touch the very warm cheek of his boyfriend, Jean had pushed up their coffee date to that moment, telling Marco he was very, _very_ comfortable with what they had, and if he ever wasn’t, he would tell Marco immediately. That had seemed to cool his face, but, if anything, it had only thrown a log into the flames that seemed to roar in Jean’s ears as Marco’s hand wrapped around his own.

 

* * *

  

Red wasn’t just for embarrassment when it came to Marco, either, Jean learned, quite quickly. It was a color also associated with anger and rage, which could affect the color of his face just as easily it could when he was distressed.

 

Like many, usually all, fights with a person, especially a stranger, it wasn’t purposeful. From Jean’s end, anyway, it wasn’t. He had been sitting there, with Eren, Mikasa, and Armin, at some party that they had been invited to because Armin had wanted to bring Eren (which meant by proxy Mikasa, and for some reason Jean was dragged in so he wouldn’t be “lonely” since Marco was busy that night – they had even contacted him around Jean’s back to make sure). It had started with a simple conversation with some chatty werewolf who was as out of place at a faerie get together as he was.

 

It wasn’t until her friend had come along with drinks, that Jean had learned that she was flirting with him and he had brought up that he wasn’t interested, though he was flattered. It wasn’t often that Downworlders outwardly found him attractive, not with the way he kept to shorter sleeves so he could easily Mark himself when needed, which lead to his Marks being quite visible.

 

Upon hearing that news, she had been less interested in talking to him, but he didn’t mind much, too distracted by the new reminder of Marco and how he would have rather been beside him, listening to him talk about _anything else_ rather than at this party. Along that track of mind, he had excused himself to the bathroom to send a message to Marco, telling him that if he wasn’t still busy later that night, that he’d like to come over, as well as that he was terribly bored and missed him.

 

On the walk back to the couch he had been sitting at – returning there mainly just to be in the same place he had been all night that way the trio that had dragged him there would know where to find him – he wondered if Marco was going to be able to reply to him or not, only for his train of thought to be interrupted by him overhearing words about… _himself_.

 

It was the werewolf friends, with the guy who had brought the drinks telling his friend that yeah, Jean wasn’t lying about being in a relationship. He was dating the warlock Marco Bodt, but _he_ , the werewolf boy, claimed that he just thought that they were only “sleeping together” so that Jean would have someone to cast spells and other things for him. He said that Marco wasn’t powerful enough – nowhere even close to the strength of a high warlock, which he wasn’t – to be of much use other than perhaps getting rid of curses and Greater Demon blood wounds, which would be just perfect for some Shadowhunter, and at that point Jean had decided that he had heard enough to know where _that_ conversation was going.

 

So, he stopped it. With his fist.

 

After the first punch, and then the returning one, it had turned into somewhat of a blur, flashes of pain (nothing compared to a fight of some rouge Downworlder or demon, however) and the satisfactory sounds of something cracking under his knuckles each time he got a hit in, until he was yanked back by thin, strong fingers that curled into his arm, and a much larger arm that twisted around his chest to haul him back. He could see Eren, with the help of the other werewolf, pulling her friend back, too, and when he looked to the crowd he had drawn, Armin’s eyes were the first things he saw, staring at him, a dangerous dosage of disappointment filling their unnatural shade.

 

When Carla had found out about the mess, she had taken him off the shifts, stole away his Stele and all the extras, and informed him that he wouldn’t leave the church until the bruise on his cheek healed, and that he wasn’t allowed to use an _iratze_ on himself or allow anyone else to give him one either. He would be spending his time either reading or training, but he was forbidden from any missions, parties, or just plain interaction outside of Institute.

 

The first fire message he had gotten back from Marco was in the morning after the incident and he was eating breakfast when it had popped into the air in front of him, fluttering down to land beside his plate. He had reached for it, only for it to be swiped away from Carla, who reminded him no interaction. He had tried to argue that Marco was going to worry if he didn’t talk to him somehow, telling him that he was okay, but she had only said that she would take care of it herself.

 

He didn’t even get to see what his note read.

 

After that, however, Marco hadn’t sent anymore, which Jean found a little off-putting since Marco liked to talk to him as often as they could and sometimes he would send many messages after another in sequences, which Jean always – secretly – enjoyed going through. Jean supposed that Carla had sent a message saying that he couldn’t talk, but was fine, but it was still more torture to not talk to Marco, who’s handwriting he had grown so used to seeing, than it was to heal like a mundane.

 

On the fourth day, his bruises as vibrant as ever and a touch bit strange to keep waking up to, he had been sitting in the library when the bell had rung. It wasn’t like he was allowed to talk to anyone and the rest of the gang was there to answer it, so he had returned to his book, rereading the same two paragraphs on something about fey history and past hardships they faced. He only gave up when he heard someone enter the room, their rushed footsteps heavy against the tile flooring, and he looked up to see Marco, red-faced, brows drawn, rushing toward him with Mikasa standing in the doorway, only watching.

 

As he stood, opening his mouth to ask what was going on, she had spoken, firm and without a trace of anything but slight amusement, before leaving. “I won’t tell Carla about your guest.”

 

The second she was gone, Marco was in front of him, grasping at his chin and tilting it this way and that, looking at his wounds at every angle as Jean spluttered, trying to push him back, to ask what was going on. Marco ignored him and held strong, expression, though holding a touch of concern, hadn’t changed much, with his downturned lips, drawn together eyebrows, and a bright, enraged flush that spread from one end of his jaw to the other, bridging over his nose. “ _God_ ,” he’d exhaled, but his voice wasn’t breathy like the tone that was described in those love novels, instead it was closer to when an object wouldn’t work, or if one kept missing their target, and their irritation only kept raising. “What the hell _happened_ to you?”

 

He had raised his other hand, palm facing himself, fingers lax and slightly curled inwards – a pose Jean knew was what he did when he was summoning his magic, and he reached out, knocking it away and releasing his face from Marco’s hold in the process. He rubbed at it, looking away for a brief moment before he glanced up, trying to maintain eye contact. “It’s nothing; I got into a fight and Carla is making me heal like a mundane because she’s pissed. You can’t use your magic to heal me.” Marco’s look didn’t falter, and he went on, trying to convince him that it was going to be fine, “It doesn’t hurt as bad as it looks-”

 

Cutting him off, Marco shook his head as if trying to calm himself, eyes shutting for a few seconds, which did actually help the color on his cheeks. “How?” He swallowed and asked again, “What did you do to earn something _this_ nasty?”

 

Putting aside the fact that Marco seemed more interested in the fact that he had fought than that it didn’t hurt (he did care, Jean knew, but he probably trying to get the full story so he could calm down first), Jean stepped back, hands flatting on the table behind him as a weak attempt at hiding the scrapes on his palms and knuckles. At least Marco didn’t know of the worst of his hits (most of which were under his shirt).

 

“Some werewolf was talking shit, so I knocked some sense into him.”

 

“It looks like he knocked something into _you_ ,” Marco told him, reaching out to brush his fingers against his bruise, but Jean turned his head in the other direction, blocking him from doing so.

 

He let out a breath of laughter, but the deeper furrowing in Marco’s brow that had just began to smooth itself out told him even Marco found that it sounded humorless. “ _Trust me_. I got more hits in than he did.”

 

Silent for a few moments, Marco’s expression began to even out, like wrinkles under an iron. He slid a finger over his upper lip and Jean could tell, no matter how he moved his head or his own gaze, Marco would keep looking at his bruise until it went away. “I thought-” he cut himself off, biting his lip for another moment before he started again, “I thought you were avoiding me.”

 

“ _Avoiding_ -” Jean sent him a look full of astonishment and confusion and then shook his head, “I would _never_. It was just that Carla-”

 

“I can talk to her, you know,” Marco interrupted, eyes wide and so full of sudden concern now that his fury wasn’t covering it that it gave Jean an urge to reach for his hand. “I can talk her into letting me use my mag-”

 

The werewolf’s words ran in his ears at the mention of magic; implying that Jean only spent his time with Marco for his powers and how they could benefit him. _I bet they’re just fuckin’ for a good spell every now and then, you know, cure wounds one o’ those Marks can’t do something for and whatever else his little Marked up ass wants._

 

Jean shook his head, perhaps a little too violently for what Marco was offering. “No, don’t. I’m healing like a mundane.” Marco frowned and opened his mouth, but Jean continued before he could say anything. “This isn’t about glory or pride or _whatever_ , before you say anything. And I know you could probably get her to let you heal me, I just- I just don’t want to.”

 

“Jean…” His voice was slow and soft and it made Jean shiver, unable to keep holding his gaze. “What did the werewolf say?”

 

He shrugged in return, one shoulder going up before the other. “It doesn’t really matter. It wasn’t true anyway.”

 

He hadn’t even told Mikasa or Eren or Armin what had happened. Armin had definitely asked and Eren prodded him about it, Mikasa came in at a later time, sitting on his bed and asking if he wanted to talk about it, but he had only kept his mouth closed and stared at anything but the three of them when the topic was brought up. Eventually, they stopped pressing, even if they kept sending him and his wounds a glance every now and then.

 

“It does matter,” Marco argued back, still speaking in that slow way, as he stepped closer, but not like he was trying to corner Jean, but just that he didn’t want there to be such a large distance between them. He leaned against the table and ran his distracted fingers along the cover of the book Jean had been reading before he came in, eyes on the floor. “It does matter if something he said is making you heal like a mundane. I know you don’t seem to hate them as much as the rest of your… brethren, but you’ve _told me_ before that you don’t know how you could cope if you couldn’t use your runes, like them.”

 

“He said that I was only sleeping with you so I could get you to do spells for me,” he blurted, eyes flicking to Marco’s after his words.

 

Unexpectedly, Marco laughed.

 

When Jean looked over, confounded on what could cause that reaction, Marco only shook his head, now standing straight, the back of his hand over his mouth. Jean watch him continue to giggle before he stopped, looking at Jean through _delighted_ (such a lovely sight for his sore eyes, especially after seeing Marco so unhappy with him and his fight), squinted eyes over his hand, smile obvious behind it.

 

“I’m sorry.” His apology was breathless from his laughter, and he sucked in air with each pause. “It’s just so… _inaccurate_ , anyway. We’re not even _sleeping together_.”

 

Jean scuffed his shoe against the tile, looking down, and wished he had a random rock or can he could kick to be dramatic about as he grumbled, “I know.”

 

“And now…” Jean looked up at his words. “And now you’re trying to prove something to him, when he wouldn’t even know about it, or yourself, or me – which would be cute – that he’s wrong and that you’re not only with me to use my powers.”

 

“I’m _not_.”

 

“I _know_ that.” Marco told him, voice suddenly serious, enough so to make Jean look up and connect their gazes as Marco’s eyes searched his own. “And isn’t that what’s important here? That I know and that you know?”

 

It was _his_ breath that came from one of those love novels, a whisper when he didn’t have any reason for it to be breathless, “ _Yes_.”

 

Beginning to smile, Marco raised his hand again. “Now, how about I fix that bruise of yours?” And this time, Jean didn’t push his hand back down.

 

* * *

 

Red was a common color on Marco’s fingernails. It wasn’t surprising, seeing as he worn anything else of it, too, for shirts, makeup, shoes, _underwear_ , and even a couple times before, his pants, as well. What it happened to be, was distracting.

 

Since it complimented his tone so well, Jean liked to look at his nails when he could. It wasn’t that hard, actually, to watch his hands as Marco made gestures to talk with them, brushed them through his hair, scratched at his cheek. Jean pretty much had a rapt attention to detail with anything Marco as it was, so it usually wasn’t obvious that he really liked Marco in red, or that he was extra caught up in his boyfriend’s _magic_ when he wore something of the color. Usually.

 

Recently, however, Marco had been wearing a deeper red than his usual shade, something that had to be new. He seemed pleased when Jean pointed it out and showed off a little, but after a little bit of wiggling his fingers and comparing the color to his other bottles of polish, that was about it. Well, for Marco, that was.

 

Jean ended up losing to MarioKart when he had glanced over and gotten distracted just by the simple contrast of _blood red_ against black, flashes, _splashes_ of it as his fingers danced along the joystick and darted between buttons. For a second he had thought of empty alleyways, of blood and screams, because those two colors just fit the scene _so well_ , but it hadn’t lasted. It jumped his mind when Marco’s excited gasp of air reached his ears and he realized that Marco had won first place and he had come in… seventh.

 

As if he noticed that Jean was too distracted to play seriously, Marco had switched them over to a movie, instead. It was alright, for the most part, and somewhere towards the middle Marco had leaned against his side and it took a few moments, but they soon snuggled up against each other, with Jean’s head on Marco’s shoulder, his hand wrapped loosely around his waist, and Marco’s hand on his knee. Of course, Marco had wanted to watch something cheesy and full of romance – but the kind that made Jean hold in his displeased groans, because even if he knew the character was stupid as hell, he also knew that Marco didn’t really want to hear it.

 

Marco gave away that he had seen the movie before; he gasped right before his favorite scenes happened, he mouthed the words of certain lines, and at parts that he found boring (but Jean was trying to pay attention to, so he could tell Marco if he liked it or not) he messed around, kissing or trailing fingers along the Marks he could openly see along Jean’s skin. Even still, there were parts that he acted like he had never seen before, many of them endearing and sweet, but nothing took the cake like the moment right before the two protagonists kissed.

 

Hand on his leg (somehow along the way it had dropped from his knee to his lower thigh without Jean noticing), he had squeezed the flesh through Jean’s pants in anticipation, nails even digging in when the dramatic music started playing. Instinctively, Jean had looked down to see red pushing into washed out blue, fingers pressing into his leg, his _thigh_. Even if it wasn’t his upper thigh, or even really the inside of it, it still caught his breath and he found himself having to drag his eyes back up to the TV, even if he wasn’t really comprehending what he was seeing anymore.

 

Finally, his breaking point had been when those nails had dragged along his arm, with just enough pressure to be felt, but not really even touching, more of a ghost of one, rather. They raised goosebumps and as they started to slide under his sleeve, he had turned to Marco and kissed him without a warning. It was just the thought of his nails brushing along the rest of his skin that lead to him letting go of everything.

 

When the kiss was broken, Marco had smirked and pressed a single nail even more firmly into his skin before jerking his head to the bedroom. Giving himself only a second to stare at Marco as he tried to decide if he was more impressed or offended by his knowledge of Jean’s… interest that he used to his advantage, he stood up and pulled Marco after him, TV forgotten until Marco snapped and everything but the lights to the bedroom had shut off.

 

* * *

 

 

Red has always been a color that could be found just about anywhere, if one looked. Many people liked the color, thus making it easily found in creation, leaves turned its color when they died and fell, it filled the bodies of the living, moving beings on their planet. It was a part of life and Jean could accept that.

 

                What he couldn’t accept was how he had brought it into a place so full of _other_ colors, where the only places it could be found would be on Marco himself somewhere, and his most personal place, his bedroom. Yet, there Jean was, leaning over Marco’s pristine, porcelain sink, arm under the water as he watched _red_ swirl and mix and dissipate. Not all of it always got washed away, as he could see the trails of the stuff _tainting_ the colorless bowl, just out of reach of the water’s edge.

               

                It wasn’t just the _blood_ that he brought in and got all over the place, either. If he looked up into he mirror that hung right above the sink, he knew there would be even more; the rim around his eyes, puffy and bright, from tears caused by both gagging on salt and the urge to puke and just from realizing that of course, vampires ate the stuff, but it was indeed the _very same_ blood that ran through their veins that came from their victims.

 

                And he had swallowed some of it.

 

                He hadn’t even given anyone a chance to try to clean his wounds before he had launched out of there to grab as much of the backup _holy water_ as he could just to swallow it down, burning the stuff out of his system as fast as he found possible. Or really, the virus – germ? gene? he didn’t really care enough to focus on that – that had been filtered into it from the vampire’s ingestion. It was still sickening to know that at that moment his body was breaking down _human_ blood. _Innocent_ human blood. Blood of a person who was dead and had already been swallowed by some _thing_ else.

               

                After he was sure he had taken in enough to get rid of that mouthful, he had chugged all the water they had in the backseat and taken off, bolting for the only place that would let him feel safe at the moment. He knew what to do – drink a lot of water, sweat that shit out, eat potassium if possible.

 

                Marco had bananas, didn’t he? He liked to flirt with the mention of them often enough, but Jean didn’t know if he actually had any in his apartment.

 

                By the time he had cleaned himself up, or really as much as he really could – leaving his bloodstained clothes in the tub and scrubbing himself down quickly with a rag he found under the counter – he had crawled under Marco’s covers, the only thing in his second home that stayed red all around the clock, the one place Jean didn’t mind being curled up at the moment.

 

                When Marco got home, calling into the empty living room, asking about the unlocked door, Jean had already moved all the blankets and sheets and pillows into his own nest, something he had used to focus his mind on, as to not let his thoughts linger on anything else. He had called back that he was in the bedroom, but the words were muffled by the pillow he had his face pressed into, too exhausted to even turn over so Marco could hear him better. It only took Marco a few seconds to settle on the bed beside him, something he felt rather than saw, as all he could see was the _red red red_ sheets pulled over his head.

 

                There was a hand on his head after another moment, and once it found the way Jean was curled up, it gently stroked the top of his hair as Marco mumbled about how he was going to take a shower and join him. It was then, as he pressed his head into the touch, that he found just enough engery to whisper, “I don’t care if you’re smelly – please don’t leave.”

 

                The hand paused, but when Jean nudged it, it twitched, lifting the covers up just enough so Marco could slip in beside him, soft clothes a nice texture to feel against his naked limbs.

 

                “Never.”


	2. Orange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Orange is the color of discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with TWICE the implied sex!!
> 
> Scenes are still 300+ so that's why the word count is like half last chapter's. 
> 
> (Also, remember not all of these are chronological, so sometimes Jean and Marco are boyfriends and sometimes they aren't dating yet. It skips and if it isn't specified then it's 100% up to reader.)
> 
> [Music](https://listenonrepeat.com/?v=tV2je_mOUQg#Colbie_Caillat___When_The_Darkness_Comes_Lyrics) for this chapter.

**_Orange_ **

 

* * *

 

 

                Orange is the color of Marco’s cat – that he does have, even if he’s a little skittish and shy of strangers. He has stripes of darker shades against his warm color around his legs, with eyes that change their hue each time he blinks, and likes to leave fur everywhere in the summer when he sheds.

 

                And his name is Pumpkin Spice.

 

                The first time Jean had come across him, he was on his way to the bathroom, when he had tripped over Pumpkin, and as he stumbled, the brown-ish orange little ball at his feet and sped off into the bedroom without even a hiss. After colliding into the wall and straightening himself up, Jean had looked over to where Marco was, about to ask him what the _hell_ that was, only to find that Marco had shot after the furry thing. He watched as a second later, the warlock had reappeared with a _cat_ in his arms, cooing at it as he walked towards Jean.

 

                He stopped about a foot away, stroking his pet, and looked up at Jean with a jerk of his head, “Are you alright there?”

 

                He had brushed it off with a simple _yeah_ , still staring at the animal that looked like it was smaller than he thought a typical house cat would be. Granted, he only saw the occasional one on missions (and they tended to avoid him like the plague), but he was still sure that they weren’t _that_ small. Even then, as its fur smoothed down with Marco’s petting (and as it stretched out to give a single bite to his chin), it got even _smaller_.

 

                Marco looked down at his pet after it pulled away from its bite and smiled, the hand that was petting it reaching up to scratch behind its awfully large ears. “I can’t believe you almost stepped on him.”

 

                “I didn’t even know you had a cat,” Jean countered, and Marco looked up with surprise at his tone of defensiveness. He forced himself to steady it. “That’s a cat, right? He’s… small.”

 

                “Oh!” Marco grinned at that, smile wide and more excited than Jean expected him to be about cats. “That’s because Pumpkin’s part sand cat. And they’re even tinier, usually between four and eight pounds.”

 

                Putting aside the fact that Marco had a pet hybrid, Jean glanced at the cat again. “His name is Pumpkin?” That was actually pretty cute and it enough to bring him a small smile.

 

                “Pumpkin Spice!” Marco confirmed, bowing down to give Pumpkin a kiss to the top of his head, which he didn’t seem to react to other than tilting his head just barely into Marco’s lips. At Jean’s raised eyebrows, he stepped closer and held out Pumpkin, who, after being held in the air for a second, started to squirm. “Do you want to hold him?”

 

                He didn’t seem to get much of a choice, as when he lifted his hands to hold them out and say that cats didn’t really like him, Pumpkin was shoved into his arms and there wasn’t much he could do other than bring the animal close to his chest and secure his grip on the pet. After all, dropping the pet of someone one was interested in wasn’t the best way to get them to return the feeling.

 

                As the days went by and his visits to Marco happened more often, it became easier to coax out Pumpkin and even sometimes his purrs. Soon enough, it was more usual to see Marco and Pumpkin running down the halls and around the couch as they played their games of tag, or to hear Marco squeal because he had been standing in the kitchen and Pumpkin had slunk out to bite him on the ankle as his own little welcome.

 

                And if Marco had ever walked in on Jean on his stomach, flat on the floor and trying to jerk his fingers out from under the couch and of the way of Pumpkin’s claws with little bouts of laughter with each swipe, Jean hadn’t heard him breathe a word about it.

 

* * *

 

                Orange is the color of the waves of magic that pour out of and surround Marco’s palm when he’s clutching at smooth sheets. It’s the color he sees before he glances up to see Marco’s grin with his lips pulled up so his teeth glitter in the low lighting, the type of smile that only comes when he can feel the sweat slipping down his face and he’s just _waiting_ for it.

 

                It’s not much that he sees after that, because the hand gets close enough to his knee, where he can feel the warmth of the magic and the little tremors of it against his skin and his eyes are squeezing shut. He’s too focused on the hand that moves up, to his thigh, twisting so the palm of it is facing the inner side, too interested in _feeling_ than _sight_ , and he barely recognizes that there are colors blooming under his eyelids like flowers.

 

                He can barely hear the, “You’re so responsive,” hushed beside his ear because he’s trying to tune into only touch, going against his instincts and it’s probably for the best, because Marco is muttering about how pretty he is, how lovely he looks, wow, look at the curve of that spine-

 

                And there’s a finger tracing his spine and anything else Marco is telling him is washed away with his broken moan and shuddering and Marco’s hand hasn’t even reached farther than halfway down his thigh, but he didn’t know magic could feel like _that_. He always imagined it wouldn’t feel like anything at all, or if it had a temperature it would be cold, but he was wrong, and it makes sense, because everything about Marco is warm, down to his words and his voice and his _touch_.

 

                It’s electrifying and warm, not hot and searing like the burn of a Mark. It’s new and comfortable, but at the same time exhilarating and making him so tense, so wound up, so similar and different from a battle that it gets his head spinning, until Marco’s free hand is combing through his hair and his mouth is whispering against his, “I know we wanted to try this with just my magic, but right now you look so, _so_ kissable.” before it’s no longer whispering, but pressing and pushing and moving and it’s nothing like a moment in battle and it’s so much better.

 

                And he’s gasping afterwards, with teeth pulling at his lip, back flat against the bedding once again, and Marco’s telling him they should try it again another time, because all he wants to do is touch him, and Jean opens his eyes to see Marco’s own are darker than the room around him, but they’re warmer than anything he’s ever felt. He wants to see just how warm he can make Marco with _his_ touch, so he nods and gives a laugh without air as he pushes him back and presses his fingers into Marco’s sides and slide them _down_.

 

* * *

 

                Orange might be the color of his eyes, it might be the color that Marco tells him he’s so envious of, might be color he starts to see pop up more and more around his apartment, but Jean isn’t so sure that it’s the reason Marco likes to sit down in front of him and gaze at him without saying anything until they’re so close that their breaths are mingling and they could kiss but they don’t.

 

                He’s pretty sure it’s just because Marco likes to see him twitch, and maybe that’s because he doesn’t do it often, not with how he’s trained himself to be unflinchable. Maybe he knows that there’s just something about him and the way he stares (with too much love to be contained in a person, sometimes with just the right kind of lust that even a single look can send him shivers to even his toes, with unashamed curiosity that Jean feels so _interesting_ and admired) that leaves Jean loose and unnerved in a way that training and adrenaline can’t do. Maybe he knows that Jean just likes the attention.

 

                But then he talks of how he wishes that he had Jean’s eyes, the kind that almost _glows_ in the dark, the kind that shines so easily, so clearly when he’s about to cry, the kind he can describe so intently and with such a ferocity that it leaves Jean wanting to hear more – more about _himself_ , when he doesn’t _care_ about his eyes, when he never did, but Marco cares so much that he just _wants_ to know. He tells Jean, no matter how much he tries to tell Marco that _his_ eyes are the ones to be in love with, gives him reasons upon reasons, that with eyes like his, he probably wouldn’t see why they were so gorgeous either, taking them for granted when he could see them every day (though Jean knows he’s thinking that if he had Jean’s eyes he would value them to their fullest, that he would enjoy every second of every moment in front of the mirror, even if Jean disagrees with him).

 

                Even after he says those things, Jean stills walks in on him one more morning, staring in the mirror above the sink, turning this way and that, eyes on their own reflections, and smiling to himself. They might not be an orange of copper and whatever else Marco likes to go on about in the light, but they’re brown and gold and made of sunlight and earth and if Marco can see the beauty of everything, Jean can only hope that one day he can see one of the reasons that Jean smiles in the morning when he opens his eyes.

 

* * *

 

                Orange was the color that Jean saw often in Marco’s room, usually because it was the color that the lights in said room turned any time they started to get hot and heavy. Used to it, Jean mostly finds it flattering and it’s starting to become just a little arousing (it’s as if his body is learning that any time the room floods in orange then he’s about to get laid). But before, the first time, it was a little bit of a surprise. Honestly, who wouldn’t be more than a little startled to see the whole room just tint with a color when they were being pressed into the bed?

 

                Their kisses had been growing increasingly wetter as Marco had backed him into his bedroom and he was growing more excited, more ballsy with his hands, when Marco had branched off to kiss down the line of his jaw. It wasn’t too much of a big deal, he’d done it before, but with the aura of being in his boyfriend’s room, with him on top of him on the sheets, and a flick of his tongue against a spot under his jaw, he had let out a keen and suddenly Marco had froze.

 

                At first, he thought it was because of the sound he had made and, flooded with embarrassment, he opened his eyes, unsure of what to say, only to blink at the sudden change in the room; of how everything had the overtone of _orange_ , as if it had been a picture with overlay of the color. He looked up at Marco, wondering if he knew what was going on, only for Marco to stare back down at him with a sheepish smile and an apology. Then it clicked.

 

                Though he couldn’t hold his smile back – who wouldn’t be smiling at the realization of learning that their boyfriend had gotten so turned on by a sound they made that they had lost control and their lighting had changed? – he had pulled Marco closer to him again and instead kissed at _his_ neck.

 

                “Don’t worry,” he had tried to pacify Marco, who still seemed a tiny bit hesitant. “If I did something like that every time I popped a boner because of you, I think I would’ve shattered your bulbs.”

 

                Unfortunately, it worked well enough that Marco had felt the desire to say the line, “I’m gonna shatter _your_ bulbs.”

 

* * *

  

                Orange is the color of duck bills. Always has been. That was something normal, Jean supposed, but the little rubber duck in Marco’s bathroom was probably anything but normal. Probably. He only said probably because he had never tried to jinx it.

 

                The thing about Marco’s rubber duck was that every time Jean walked into his bathroom and saw it, it was in a different place. One time, sitting on the side of the bath, like a normal rubber duck would. Then, another time, on the sink side, and the next time, on the back of the toilet. After noticing that it never seemed to be in the same place each time he entered, he made it a little game of trying to find it every time he went inside.

 

                One time, he had found it sitting on the edge of the little protrusion of the lights, but knowing that it got hot there, he had moved it to the counter top. Another time, it was actually inside the towel cabinet, sitting atop a folded up wash cloth like a throne.

 

                He had only even found it inside of the toilet, something he had laughed at, which was probably the reason Marco had given him a strange look when he had came back out.

 

                The reason he didn’t know if it _was_ normal or not was because he couldn’t just put it off to Marco moving it every time he went in there, because it was _always_ in a different place, as well as a place it had never sat before and wouldn’t a person forget, at least once? Plus, Marco always had a _lot_ of strange things around his place – many of them that were unsafe and Jean felt uneasy about Marco living so calmly with them inside his apartment – so a magically moving rubber duck couldn’t faze him much. Still, he didn’t want to ruin his own fun by walking straight back into the bathroom one and finding out if it was or was not just Marco was doing it for his amusement or if it was a special object, so he kept it a guessing game with himself, not even bringing it up to the owner of said duck.

 

                After all, a smile on his face every time he left the restroom was probably a little strange for anyone else, but Marco never questioning it, instead just smiling back, full and not quite _knowing_ (but not just a quirk of his lips at seeing his lover again) which was a little treat in itself for Jean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This chapter's link](http://overmyfreckledbody.tumblr.com/post/142177252553/saabits-orange) to reblog.
> 
> Chapter Yellow should be out later today, sorry for this one being late.


	3. Yellow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yellow is the color of joy, energy, and acceptance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, episode twelve heavily inspired this chapter, and halfway through scene four I started listening to the music from it (that's where this chapter's music comes from), so you can tell there's gonna be cheese ahead.
> 
> Cheese and fluff.
> 
> Sorry I can never get things done on time.
> 
> [Music.](https://listenonrepeat.com/?v=49ZhrgtR-S4#Ruelle_-_War_Of_Hearts_Lyrics_Video)

**_Yellow_ **

 

* * *

 

 

                Yellow was the color of the light that would flicker in Marco’s first, quite shitty apartment hallway. It would blink and splutter, something Marco joked about reminding him from those horror movies that he liked to make Jean sit down and watch with him (and he found to have too much suspense – the effects usually weren’t good, and all the characters were stupid), usually, Jean noticed, just to cling to him.

 

                When it really became helpful and important to him and his visits was the second time he ever saw it. He had gone alone to pick something up for Carla, something that was apparently important enough for a visit rather than it being sent, but not enough so that she could pull the other two off of their missions like she had Jean (who she probably didn’t know even had a – small, he told himself at the time, regularly and in the mirror – thing for the warlock, but just that he was good at talking to people and making the visits short, to the point).

 

                The reason he liked it was rather lame, however. He had read something about how if someone focused all their attention on looking and staring into one thing and taking in all its details, it would help calm them down. So, in the empty hallway, just a few steps from the landing that held Marco’s door facing it only a few paces away, he glanced around for something. There was the chipping paint on the walls, or the dirt-smeared floor, or even the splintering wood of the handrail, but he had decided on the light that seemed to barely work anymore and its dim enough color he could stare straight at it without it burning into his eyes.

 

                The bulb looked almost cloudy, so dust covered that it made little wisps of ghost-like characters into the glass, illuminated by the burn of the electricity. It made it hard to tell just _exactly_ where the wire inside of it was, but with how much he desired to keep his cool, he had kept staring just to force himself to see it, and by the time he did – his heart was no longer thudding in his chest. It had started to pick up again when he raised his knuckles to rap against the cheap wood of Marco’s door, but with a glance over his shoulder at the dying bulb, he felt enough confidence in himself to go on anyway.

 

                It became a helpful tip for him, to stare at it each time he visited until his blood wasn’t rushing because he was scared of embarrassing himself, but by the fact that Marco was already there, watching him from the doorway at the top of the stairs.

 

* * *

  

                Yellow was the color of the taxi that they shared sometimes, the one that Jean typically took to Marco’s, the one that Jean assumed Marco usually took to the institute, since he didn’t have a car of his own (and portaling was very inefficient, really, for such a short distance). Sometimes they would they would take the same one when they went places, holding hands across the seats as Marco smiled and pointed out how pretty the passing buildings were. Not that every time he rode in some taxi that it was the same one every time, but they all looked the same from the outside, with their yellow paint jobs that purposefully stuck out in traffic, triggering memories each time he saw one, even parked and not in use.

 

                He could be on his way to a church, a graveyard, a place that had claimed to be invested with demons or savage (and sometimes freshly Turned) Downworlders, but when he caught site of their color he would be left of thoughts that consisted less of where he was going and what he was about to do, and more with where _Marco_ probably was, and what _he_ could be doing. Thankfully, for the most part, his feet would already be used to how distracted Marco had taught his brain to be, so they would keep on walking, avoiding traffic and pedestrians as he moved to his original destination. Once the cab would be out of sight, Jean would come to, and be back to his mission. He was so very thankful that most of the time he would be on his own and without others there to notice his embarrassment.

 

                Oh, the wonders of being a capable Shadowhunter without a parabatai and able to take on your own assignments.

 

                Still, the thought of them would linger in the back of his head until after the operation was finished, and after he triple checked _everything_ for all his supplies, something he had missed, or anything out of the ordinary, Jean would find himself itching to send the boy a fire message, something barely sedated enough by the fact that he would use a taxi to get back to the street the Institute was on.

 

* * *

  

                Yellow is the key that sits in his palm, something he’s never really used, but Marco showed him how. It has strange ridges, unique and different from any other key, he was told. They’re for unlocking the tumblers inside of a lock when it’s pushed in and twisted, all the way to the hilt – much like a blade to some thicker demons – he has to remember.

 

                Marco recently moved into a new apartment, one that doesn’t smell of mold or fast food in the hallway to his door, or even have stairs leading to it. There is a light above his door, but it doesn’t flicker and it hurts a little more to look at, but he doesn’t find himself staring at it often, only a simple glance before he uses his own key instead of just the side of his fist against the wood of the door. Inside, the place is bigger, and he has his own little office to keep all his commissions in order, though he still talks to his customers in the living room, on the couch – that he should have gotten rid of in the move that Jean helped him with, but Marco wouldn’t listen and didn’t let him throw _anything_ out.

 

                After they had moved everything in and Marco had fallen onto his seat, exhausted from using so much magic to move things to make it easier (though Jean had no probably with carrying everything in, Marco wouldn’t let him), he rummaged in his pocket for a moment before he had produced the little key and pressed it into Jean’s hand, curling his fingers over it. “That way you don’t have to knock every time you come over,” Marco had told him, eyes bright and without even the slightest hint of hesitation, “But if you bring guests, I’d like to know about them ahead of time, that way I can prepare and make sure I have clothes on.”

 

                Marco didn’t walk around without anything on most of the time (usually only after they had rumpled around in the sheets or he took a shower), so Jean had _known_ that those extra words were more of way of putting the image of a naked warlock in his head than a warning.

 

                Even now, just the thought makes his hand flex around the key a little, and he chastises himself in his head for getting excited so early. He came over because Marco wanted to cook with him (for whatever unfathomable reason) and while he was early, Marco had told him to get all the ingredients set up so that they could just start when Marco got home. The list of what he needed out was in his back pocket, and he had gone over everything several time to make sure he knew what everything was, and Marco had a computer in his office he could use in case he forgot.

 

                That was kind of lame. It wasn’t his fault that he didn’t cook often. Most of the time he was forced into training and studying that he had little free time, all of which he spent with Marco, and since Mikasa liked to do it so much and she was the prodigy when it came to fighting so she didn’t need to train as much, he had been fine with her being the one to cook.

 

                She was very good at it, actually. He didn’t know why Marco had called for him, when she was the one with the expertise.

 

                He gets pulled out of his thoughts by one of Marco’s neighbors, a woman just barely older than both of them, with light brown hair pulled back every time he saw her. She frowns at him, “Did Marco move out? I thought he just moved in.”

 

                Jean drops his hand, clenching his fist, the key just barely poking out from his fingers. “Oh, no, I’m just-”

 

                She cuts him off with a small, but growing grin, “You’re the boyfriend, aren’t you?” She does not give him much of a chance to respond before she wanders closer. “Having key trouble? Here, let me,” she plucks it swiftly out of his hand and pushes it into the lock, turning it and pulling it out when the door let out a click, before she opens the door and pushes it inside a little. “There you go!”

 

“Thanks,” he mutters, dazed. She leaves him there, still smiling, as he gazes at the lock that he hadn’t got to unlock on his own, even though it was the first time he would be using his key without Marco being on the other end of the door, expecting him or not.

 

                He doesn’t get a lot of time to mourn over it, however, as a note popped into the air next to him. He snatches it up, glancing over its short contents of _just got away, in a cab now_ before he pushes his way inside, shoving the letter and his key into his pocket and exchanging them for the list.

 

                He’d get to use it next time – if he could move fast enough, then, that is.

 

* * *

  

                Yellow are the flowers that Jean clutched in his grip, as well as was the shirt under the suit he wore. Really, it was more of a pale, muted gold, but that fell into the category, didn’t it? Marco had told him to wear something similar to match (and because he looked so good in it – though Jean wasn’t sure about that bit, he thought he stuck better to blacks and grays, maybe browns…) to some dinner party Marco wanted to bring him along to. All he had was things he could wear to a wedding or bland, “every day” clothing that fit into something yellow.

 

                The rest was black, for the most part.

 

                His best bet was to bring yellow flowers (roses, daffodils, tulips, frangipani, and daisies) along with him and hope for the best. Maybe his shirt would be enough.

 

                Upon his arrival, Marco’s entire face lit up, even before his eyes had went down to take in the flowers, and it set every nerve in his body aflame. How did Marco do that? How could he and his expressions that always gave away just what was running through his heart and his mind just act like the second Jean walked in that the whole world was a different color, a different shade, just anything brighter?

 

                And then, even still, how was it that, lines of his person still sharper than they had been before Jean had entered, he could just carry on, unlike Jean who had to pause to let his heartrate catch up with time itself, to gather his breathing again? How could he just take the flowers from Jean limp grasp and go back inside, dragging his fumbling boyfriend with him, as he searched for a vase that wasn’t full of something deadly to put them inside?

 

                Again, he smiled, but so gently, so much with a look that told him that if Jean declined, he wouldn’t be upset, when he asked Jean if he wanted Marco to put on any of his extra shimmery, gold eyeliner. Yet, with the thunder in his chest, he found a way to send one of his own along with the simple answer, “Yes, of course.”

 

* * *

  

                Yellow fell from the trees, fluttering in the air, breezing past them, sometimes lifting off the ground long and high enough to dance with their steps, ignored despite of its demand for attention. Jean only really paid mind when it fell into Marco’s hair, the hardened stem caught tangled between his locks, usually so easy to comb through, messed by the wind.

 

                He reached to grab the leaf, Marco turning towards his hand just in time for the side of his palm to graze his cheek. Jean watched, momentarily distracted by the way Marco’s mouth opened slightly at the touch, of a skim of warmth instead of the biting gusts that pushed and huffed at them. “Jean?”

 

                Though he said nothing, his eyes wide, he plucked the leaf out of Marco’s hair and showed it to him, as its own explanation. As Marco’s eyes zeroed in on it, he fought to find something to say, something that would be more of a reasoning for the desire to touch Marco’s face again, more deliberately. Instead, he too, looked at the leaf, and wondered, as his fingers twisted it in their hold, if the color of fallen leaves have ever been that vibrant, or if he had ever noticed.

 

                When Marco turned his attention back down to Jean, who couldn’t help but stare back, he noticed that not even the man’s hair had ever seemed so glossy, either. Granted, Jean didn’t get to see him outside often, not in the light of the Autumn sun, on a rarely cloudless, day, but it was still odd. Unless-

 

                “Jean?”

 

                He barely even took in the sound of the other man’s voice, thoughts of quotes, of books, of Armin’s tales flooding through his head, and how they always mentioned one little thing. One thing that always happened when and right before…

 

                “I think I’m in love with you.”

 

                Before they said something like that.

 

                Marco’s eyebrows shot up at that, mouth opening to respond, but it moved too fast for him to think out a reply, and Jean didn’t want to hear that. He didn’t want to hear his automatic response. Jean might have been rash, might have said things before they should have been, and that might have been because he was truly an impulsive person who worked so hard to keep it out of his fighting, to wait for his commands or thoughts or strategy before he acted that it overflowed into his social interactions, but that didn’t mean that Marco, who _wasn’t_ like that, could be just because Jean said something he had just realized because of a _leaf_.

 

                “I think I want to spend my life with you. I think that no matter what happens, I want to be able to visit you when its over and to curl up and talk or do whatever it is that we will end up doing,” He told Marco, who kept staring at him, without anything but surprise and the fact that he was listening intently written on his face.  “And I know, I probably shouldn’t have said it now, but…” He trailed off, taking a breath before he went on, wanting to keep the end of it strong, to make sure that it didn’t just fall and grow quiet like those stories, those quotes, those tales did when one confessed. “I don’t want you to tell me what you think about that, right now. Please,” he cut himself off and started again, “Just wait a while. Think it over, then tell me what you think about it.”

 

                He took another breath, trying to even himself out, where he had tensed at giving his little monologue, and waited, as Marco was still staring at him. After a moment, when nothing changed, he looked away, at the ground, at the leaf he was still clinging to beside his side.

 

                He didn’t get much time to admire it though, as Marco decided he didn’t want to think about his answer. “I’m in love with you, too.”

 

                It was Jean’s turn to do the staring.

 

                “I have been for a while, but I wanted you to say something about it,” when Jean’s eyebrows started to bring together and his lip started to curl, Marco added, “I wanted you to set the pace and if I had told you before this moment, I don’t think you would’ve returned my words.”

 

                Swallowing, Jean said nothing, but he couldn’t look away, not even just a glance, and he couldn’t get his mind out of its blank, white-sheet state. As if knowing that, Marco took him into his arms with an exhale through his nose, and buried his face into Jean’s neck, talking as Jean’s own arms took longer to wind around Marco’s frame. “Thank you for telling me.”

 

                “I didn’t even mean to,” Jean whispered, staring over Marco’s shoulder. “It just came out. I mean, the second I thought it-”

 

                “I know,” Marco said back, the puff of his breath warm and wet against his skin. “It makes it even more intimate, don’t you think?”

 

                Jean didn’t know about that, but he was willing to agree to anything if it meant he could hold Marco like he was for as long as they could, cold weather and falling leaves ignored.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the [link if you want to reblog](http://overmyfreckledbody.tumblr.com/post/142280677863/saabits-yellow) this chapter's link.
> 
> I'm not even gonna set a date for Green.

**Author's Note:**

> AU set in The Mortal Instruments, but without literally any of the characters or plotline going on. Just these dorks being in love and living in their world.
> 
> This is my snk/writing [tumblr](overmyfreckledbody.tumblr.com). 
> 
> Here is the post that you can reblog with a [link to this fic.](http://overmyfreckledbody.tumblr.com/post/142069493733/saabitd-red)
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it! If so, please leave a kudos and/or a comment!


End file.
